


while the sunset sinks down below

by half_a_league



Series: crawl out head first [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sophia Lives, Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Daryl-Centric, Developing Friendships, Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-18 03:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14844533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_a_league/pseuds/half_a_league
Summary: A wolf had learned about enemies from the red man. A man had enemies, but a wolf had only hadpreyandpackandman. Now, a wolf understood the red man. Death walked on two legs instead of lying on the ground and rotting like it should. It stalked a man-child, but it could have stalked a rabbit or a deer, and still a wolf would seek to end it.A wolf put his nose to loose cover of leavesdirttreerot and stalked forward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [and in the clarity of this night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/995297) by [half_a_league](https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_a_league/pseuds/half_a_league). 



> Title from SUR's "Lean Back". Source material belongs to AMC. Season one is really the only canon I'm paying attention too, and even so, not that much. Work un'beta'd so all mistakes are mine.

The whole damn world smells like dry death and wet death and the low, rich scent of fresh blood. It’s all over Daryl’s clothes, down the legs of his filthy fucking jeans where T-Dog had nearly bled out on him, mixing with the hot stink of walker guts. He can hardly catch anything over it—not the reek of his own BO, not the mixed smell of the woods, not the tang of little girl fear-sweat he wishes he could follow.

 _Nose to the ground like a goddamn coondog_ , Merle would say. _Smell that, boy?_ He’d do that wet sucked-in breath through his teeth, taste it on his tongue. _Ay-strin-gent, ain’t that what your pussy little friends called it? A fucking three dollar word if I ever heard one. We eaten roadkill smells better than that scared little girl-pup._

Coming up the rise, dogging Rick’s heels, Daryl feels the limb-missing-ness settle on him and ride him like a monkey on his back. Merle didn’t like nobody, not Daryl, not himself, not a bunch of half-strangers with more guns ‘n him. He would just as soon spit on someone askin’ for help than lend a hand, and how many times when they were playing house in that camp did he get his ass half-beat by Shane for threatening those little kids running around everywhere.

It doesn’t make the missing of him any less painful.

Merle wouldn’t stand there with his goddamn crossbow useless across his back, sucking in death-taste through his open mouth, watching the sky over Carol’s shoulders instead of her leaking eyes when she sits rocking on the guard rail moaning out, “She’s just a child. She’s just a child.”

Rick’s talking to her but also to all of them, saying he didn’t have another choice, but he’s also looking back at Daryl when he says it, his hand half out to him. _We did everything we could_ , his eyes say. _Didn’t we do everything we could?_

Yes, is the only goddamn answer to that, except it’s a goddamn lie. They haven’t done everything. Rick is looking at him, eyes wide and a hook cuts into Daryl’s stomach, tugs in deep inside his guts. It’s been there since Atlanta, since the muzzle of his Colt slammed against the side of Daryl’s head, right against the skin and dug in, harder than a warning bite to his neck. Since Rick—

Well, since Rick, there’s an ache pulls his spine through his stomach, hard and instinctive.

Carol makes a wet whimpering noise, like a snotty little kid. A long time ago Daryl had crouched in the floor of a rattling Humvee and listened to Ford’s obnoxious drawl as he recited shit poetry and worked muddy sand out of Daryl’s fur. _Pack right is the right of the meanest_.

Now, Carol was crumbling herself up crying, and the others were scattering, and Rick was walking away alone down the long line of cars, the line of his back straight and hard.

The chain was pulling, tugging tighter the darker the night got. “It’ll be alright,” Lori said as Daryl cut away from them, his whole chest hurting.

The air in his mouth was thick with curling rot. Daryl kicked the tire of a car, furious, and prowled away until he couldn’t see the others, could only hear the bare murmur of their voices, everyone too afraid to speak up in case the walkers heard. Carol’s sobs kept cutting in and out, making his shoulders tight.

It had been Merle before, for a long time. He’d been bigger than Daryl and meaner than Daryl, but now Merle was gone and they were all looking at Rick. And Rick was the kind of man who’d reach for your hand when you were on the ground. He’d pull you up if he could. He’d carve his own heart out of his chest and put it in a walker’s mouth to save his family, walk on hot coals to save his friends.

After Merle, after the CDC, Daryl was spinning in his own damn skin trying to figure out what to do. Rick had gone past him and put a hand on his shoulder like it was nothing and the last little loyalty to Merle had curled up with a whine and died.

His foot hurt. He kicked a car again, harder, snarled, “Fuck!”

There was a gasping breath behind him. He jerked around, swinging the crossbow up, jumped as Amy shrieked. “Shit!” she said, desperately. “Don’t shoot.”

“It’s just me,” like that had any meaning to him. Like she was any less threatening than the walkers that had shambled past and around them earlier.

That last night Daryl had peeled away from T-Dog and Rick and Glenn. He’d stalked around them in a wide circle into the brush and they’d let him go without a damn word. Their shit little tent was further out, reeked like home and he’d stripped down and stuck his nose into Merle’s mess of blankets like a lovesick puppy-pawed little bastard and mouthed at the filth on them until the smell came up. Everything he had left, gone.

Then geek-stench had come through the air, heavy on it, cutting in the burning fish-and-wood stink, the people stink upwind, and it hadn’t taken him any thought to slip out of the tent and through the trees. He’d come up in the shadows just in time to see Amy standing at the door of the RV like an idiot, mouth open wide but not screaming yet when the walker had come at her.

He got it, and he got a couple others, teeth so caked with shit that he’d thrown up twice before he even struggled onto two legs, muscles loose and easy and half-limp. Went back for his clothes, his crossbow and snuck into the mess without anyone even noticing.

But she was always _watching_ him afterwards, clinging to her sister like she was any good at shit, at keeping them safe, but keeping her eyes on him, tracking him around until he was half-crazy and ready to slam her down just to make her look elsewhere.

“What the fuck do you want?” he demanded, and snorted as she reached out and shoved the crossbow away from herself.

At least she and her sister didn’t pussyfoot around. She shoved his crossbow away and said like she didn’t care who the fuck heard it, “You could find Sophia, if you, you know, _changed_.”

Like she thought he’d just be stripping off his vest and squirming into a penguin suit.

She cried out when her back hit the piece of shit car she had been leaning on, and he shoved his hand over her mouth. “Don’t say that shit so loud. Not your ass that’s gonna get lynched, someone hears you.”

She shoved at him, and he let her. “No one’s going to _lynch_ you,” she said and wrinkled her nose. “Especially if you find Sophia. It’s twenty-ten, people have rights now. No one goes around just _lynching_ were—”

She shut up when he lifted the crossbow again. “Don’t say it,” he said, low, and she swallowed, nodded. Even noseblind, he was close enough to smell the rank curls of fear as she bit out, “Fine,” like she was pissed at him.

And then, “Come on, Daryl,” in a tone that set his teeth on edge. “She’s all alone out there, just a little kid. Lori says she’s only twelve years old.”

Like Daryl was stupid, didn’t know Sophia wasn’t even old enough to be off the fucking teat. “Whatever,” he said, shrugged hard. “Didn’t you hear Rick? We’ll go off in the morning, bring her back. She’ll be fine.”

“There’s like a hundred walkers out there!” Amy said. “She might not even be _alive_ in the morning!” And then pissed as hell, “Daryl, come on! What the hell are you scared off?”

Like she had any right to ask. She’d never had a teacher sit her away from the others like he could pass it on with a shared pencil, a fucking touch. Never been shoved on sidewalks, never been stared at like she might explode any second. Never dunked her muzzle into a bowl of water before she’d been old enough to know what rat poison smelled like. Never scarfed meat off the crooked steps of someone’s back porch and spent three days screaming in agony, waiting for silver buckshot to pass out his bloodied ass.

But the burn in his guts now. If he opened his mouth to tell her that, his guts were gonna come right out on that fucking fishhook.

“You gonna get b’tween their guns ‘n me?” he finally choked out, but he didn’t really mean it.

He set his crossbow down on the roof of the car. The buttons on his shirt were sticky from all the blood when he fumbled at them, tore the front of it open and shrugged it off. “Don’t touch it,” he said, rolled the edge of his lip up so she could see his teeth when she reached a hand out for the crossbow.

“Okay,” she said, eyes wide. Staring at him still, until his whole fucking spine itched with it.

“You never heard of privacy before?” he snapped as he reached for his belt, and she went red, turned her back with a shiver. Scared of him, even after he saved her fucking life, and wasn't that jut shit.

“Hey!” someone shouted, came closer at a fast clip. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Shit,” Amy said as she turned around, and Daryl paused, watched with narrowed eyes as Andrea stormed in close, Dale shuffling behind her, calling out, “Andrea?” in concern.

“Leash your goddamn sister,” Daryl said. “Or she’s gonna be the one gettin’ out the damn rope.”

He left his boxers on because they were so filthy-nasty he wouldn’t mind turning them into rags. Amy was shoving past him, putting her hands out like her sister was a spooked animal or something. “It’s okay,” she said, because she was a goddamn fool. “He’s gonna find Sophia.”

“Then why,” Andrea said, low and nasty, “is he _naked_.”

There was only so much space between the rows of cars. Dale was standing shoulder to shoulder with Andrea, and he wouldn’t move aside, just met Daryl’s eyes in a way that made him suddenly and hotly furious.

“Got a problem, old man?” he demanded, and shoved through, knocked Andrea against a car in a way that made her squawk like a bird.

“Hey!” she said again, but Daryl was already leaving them behind. The concrete was half-hot under his feet, and he kept stepping on broken glass from the car windows, crunching it into the soles of his feet.

Carol was still crying, jagged noises. She didn’t look up when he padded past them, dug into the backseat of the station wagon. Sophia’d crammed her over-shirt between the seats, and he tugged it out, threw it onto the ground where it wouldn’t be hard to reach it.

There was noise behind him, a noise to his right. The skin on his back rippled, turned up goosebumps under the force of all the eyes on him.

“Daryl?” Rick said.

It had been easier before, when there were nine of them in the same sweltering tent on the FOB, stacking their clothes on their cots, tucking their boots under. Making jokes about the nylon webbing collars their NCOs were handing out. Stalking naked past each other as they were assigned to fire teams.

It sure as hell had been harder than that. But that was the easiest it had ever been.

His back itched.

“Daryl,” Rick said, harder, enough to make him jump a little.

“Amy said you ain’t gonna torch my shit,” Daryl said, and glanced over his shoulder. Rick was staring right at him, cold eyes, and his Colt wasn’t in his hand, but he kept his palm on it. He didn’t smell afraid.

 _Them’s killer eyes_ , Merle said over his shoulder. _You’re lookin’ at the fucking face of a man who won’t pause over shootin’ a rabid fucking dog. You think he’s gonna hesitate with a goddamn wolf?_

 _You backed the wrong horse in this race, brother_ , Merle said. _Should have tried harder to find me instead of listening to him_.

“You gonna do somethin’ to my shit, you just leave my brother’s bike alone,” Daryl said.

One of Merle’s lays had described it once, when Daryl was in high school. She was sprawled out, sex-stinking, on the stained carpet in the living room, blowing smoke up to the ceiling and babbling like someone cared what the fuck she was saying.

“It’s like someone guttin’ a dog, ‘cept they didn’t even put the poor thing down first,” she said. “Like they gut it, and then they turn it inside out, real fast, ‘fore it can even die.”

She turned wide, glassy eyes at him, and flinched back when he bared his teeth. “What’s it feel like?” she asked, stupid drunk and high out of her goddamn mind.

Daryl hadn’t said anything then. He thought she’d know, if her coked-out head managed to think about it for a goddamn second. It felt pretty much like it looked.

He sank down to one knee, got the other under him. Put his arms above him head and stretched out, pulled with his muscles, pulled _deeper_ than his muscles. And then he was falling backwards, the world was hot and swimming, the world was wet and slick and _crack crack crackcra—clackclackclack_ , panting as his body twisted backwards, flipped, and his paws hit the ground, pushed him off.

A wolf let momentum take him three trotting steps, scenting the air, watching the man with killer eyes. The deathsmells were all around, and here was a man who didn’t smell afraid. 

A man has dull teeth, but a man also has fire and weapons and eyes that tracked him in the dark.

A wolf didn’t crawl on his belly and cry puppy-cries. He didn’t cringe away under any man who met his eyes. But this was a man more than that. Here was a man who could take a wolf to the ground and a wolf was not afraid, but a wolf could learn.

A wolf put his ears back and tucked his tail between his legs, crouching low. A wolf covered his teeth with his lips and did not growl.

The man with killer eyes got down on one knee, and held out his empty hands.

A man can do many things. He can open plastic packets with his hands and make cold meat warm again. He can operate strange and monstrous machines a wolf cannot outrun. He can kill his enemy from a great distance. 

He can stand behind his friend, and take aim with his gun, and fire at a wolf.

A girl shouted, “Shane, no!” The man with killer eyes jerked to his feet, turned around.

A wolf didn’t live because he was a fool. He turned tail, ground hot under his feet, and swiped with a snap the crumbled fabric on the ground and held it in his jaws as he tore toward the trees, floated over the long line of metal fence.

A wolf slid down the hill, hearing more gun-thunder and man-shout behind him. He slid between the trees, girl-manpup smell in his nose, and flung his prize to the ground. It stank and the forest stank around him when a wolf lifted his nose to sample the night air. Here was man-fear and girl-fear and the thick cut of rot in motion, unnatural and loathsome.

A wolf had learned about enemies from the red man. A man had enemies, but a wolf had only had _prey_ and _pack_ and _man_. Now, a wolf understood the red man. Death walked on two legs instead of lying on the ground and rotting like it should. It stalked a man-child, but it could have stalked a rabbit or a deer, and still a wolf would seek to end it.

A wolf put his nose to loose cover of leavesdirttreerot and stalked forward.

A wolf went to the water and found death swaying there. It didn’t drink like an animal would, only moved through the water and moaned low when it saw him. A wolf leapt from the bank, unafraid. His paws hit death and his teeth found its throat.

Death fought back; it struck his sides and tried to thrash him off in the water. It tried to bite him but its teeth were dull and a wolf’s fur was thick.

Good flesh was hot and thick with blood and yielded only as he tore. Deathflesh split open under his teeth, stinking and cold and poured down his chest in wet and runny clumps as he tore and planted his feet and snarled, shaking his head fiercely.

Something in deathflesh snapped and slid wetly. Death stopped moving, as it should, and lay in the water below a wolf. It fouled the stream, and a wolf snarled down at it, drooling blackly. The air smelled like brackish water and rot so deep it burned a wolf’s lungs, and it also smelled faintly like girl-sweat and man-fear.

A wolf found a girl-pup’s den under the roots of a tree. He shoved in and scented deeply, cool mud and girl-smell, but no girl. The scent left the den, layered over when it entered, and climbed the bank again. A wolf followed it, and tore savagely at the grass along the edge until he choked and hung his head and threw up old water and acid and foaming rot.

He dipped his head and scented, padded around the mess. He stopped to rub his muzzle clean against the ground, rolled over onto his back to get the gore off his fur. When he was grass-scent clean, he padded to his feet and caught the trail again. Girl-child, and wolf, and man layered over each other, too thickly to miss.

A wolf had come through here before with the killer-eyed man. A wolf had been noseblind and dull of fang, but now he was red in tooth and claw and the winding trail of steps lit his nose, the forest unfolding before him.

A wolf found the place where the girl-child had turned away from the killer-eyed man’s directions. The air stank heavy with rot as a wolf passed his other dead enemy, and he stopped to piss on the rot and bone and bad flesh.

And here was the end of his own old scent trail, and the faintening of the girl-pup’s. A wolf stalked the path, scent the air. Scented the ground. Scented the delicately green leaves and broken branches.

A wolf could run for many miles. A girl-pup could run for many less. A wolf followed her ghost-scent, ignored the shambling death that he passed, until the trees ended and low grass seas began.

Here there was man-smell, a stranger scent. A wolf sat on his haunches and tilted his head back and took in the air. Man-scent upwind, blowing towards his left. Smoke and cow and motor-smells. A wolf saw, very far away in the distance, a light in the dark. Like an ember, so faint and far and orange-red against the black-grey.

The girl-scent did not go toward there.

A wolf went on.

Across the grass and back into the woods, flirting with the edges of the trees. The girl hadn’t gone deep enough again to lose sight of the clearings. A wolf, nose to the ground, didn’t notice the man-den until the girl-scent veered sharply out of the trees, and he raised his head to look for danger ahead of him.

A wolf pricked his ears forward to listen, and sniffled at the air. There was a man-den but no man-smell on the air, only dry wood-rot and girl-scent and deathsmell.

Deathsmell came thick on the air, and the nightsounds tore themselves apart with screams.

A wolf howled. A wolf leapt through the night. The other side of the den—a girl screaming and death swaying towards her, dull teeth yellow and wet. A wolf hit his enemy from the side, snarling him onto the ground. This death was newer, stronger. It hit at his ribs until they ached, thrashed so a wolf couldn’t get his fangs into that soft and swollen throat.

Death snapped its teeth a hair's width from a wolf’s nose. A wolf threw himself away, rolled to his feet. Death was struggling up, and a wolf circled it uneasily, moving toward a girl. Her scent lit the night as a wolf put himself between her and death.

The night was silent, all soft and creeping pray gone quiet at the noise. A wolf listened for heavy not-man footsteps and heard none. A wolf snarled at his enemy as it moaned and faced him.

A wolf attacked.

He hit death hard enough to force it back, threw himself aside and came at death’s legs. Death stumbled, growling, and a wolf circled behind it, drove it to its knees. Death reached for a wolf, and a wolf sprang and tore its arm loose, left it twitching in the dirt.

Death hit the ground on its front. A wolf sprung onto its back and dug its teeth into its weak, rotting neck. A wolf didn’t stop chewing and tearing until it pulled the enemy’s head from its neck and it lay still on the ground in a slick puddle of liquid flesh, black and thick and stinking.

The girl was no longer screaming. A wolf licked his muzzle and pinned his ears back at the taste. There was grass all around and he went and grazed until it caught in his throat and he gagged. His throat worked and his whole body tensed, and he fought until it all came up.

“Um,” a girl whispered behind him, rabbit-breaths caught in her chest, stinking the air up around her. A wolf wheeled around and looked at her, ears up, and her heartbeat slowed.

She was small and frail, a yearling on her own. She was not a wolf’s pup, but she was a man-child and a wolf bowed for a killer-eyed man.

A wolf scented the air and smelled deathsmell onto in the distance, trickling downwind. The girl dropped her eyes when he stared at her and peeled back his lips, and she stumbled forward when he circled her and butted her knees. It was in this way a wolf brought her back to the man-den, where the air was dry and hot and smelled like her and fish and dust.

A wolf could run for many miles, but a girl-child needed to sleep. A wolf padded across the floor, nails clicking on the wood. He climbed the stairs, and scented the still air, and retreated finally to the room with the girl and her den.

She was curled up on a blanket, tightly, and her eyes glistened in the grey-dark. A wolf came and lay on the floor in front of her den, head down on his paws, and sighed heavily. The girl slept, after a while, and a wolf let his eyes shut and half-slept, too.

In the grey of early morning, the girl woke a wolf, crying out in her sleep with little puppy cries. A wolf got up, heaved his tired body from the floor, and padded into her den and lay next to her. She quieted, and fisted a hand in the gore-tacky ruff around his neck, and slept again, while a wolf kept a keen ear cocked toward the shut backdoor.

The world outside lightened until even a man could see well. Sun crept across the floor of the room, and a wolf rose and stretched and pawed at a girl until she woke too. A girl was smart. She ate at the food hidden in her den, and drank at the water, and poured water into a bowl for a wolf.

It tasted like plastic, but a wolf licked up even the last few drops, and tongue-lolling, crinkled at the empty bottle, crunching it until the girl laughed and tried to take it from him. A wolf let her, and danced around her, tail in the air, snapping at it to get it back. A girl was unafraid.

The girl shook the bottle at a wolf, and a wolf barked for it, straining forward, ears up. A girl was unafraid.

A girl threw the bottle across the room, and a wolf danced after it, clacked his teeth against it, shook his head like he was trying to kill it. A girl was unafraid.

A wolf took the bottle back to the girl. She held her hand out and tried to take it, but a wolf was faster. He let the bottle hit the floor, and took the girl’s hand instead, tender and hot and salty between his teeth and held it almost hard enough to hurt. “Hey, no!” a girl said, but—

A girl was unafraid.

A wolf led the girl out of the den-room. He dragged, until she came stumbling on her own. A wolf led the girl out of the man-den, and when he lifted his head to scent the air, tongue lolling pant-happy, she took her hand away and put it on his back. And a girl kept it there as they picked their way back into the woods, a wolf following his own scent trail, as familiar as mother’s milk, as any half-remembered sucklingdream.

Death still stalked the woods, familiar perfume the air, on tree and leaf and branch and dirt, and twice a wolf had to lead the girl around an enemy, ignoring her whimpers, snarling when she balked. Once he fought another death, made it lay and rot into dirt like it should, and a girl waited while a wolf performed his familiar dance—the grazing, the retching, the rolling.

Once, a wolf smelled a man-smell, strange without rot. Sweat oil meat smoke _metal_. He knocked the girl into the forest-shed, and lay on top of her, feeling her rabbit-heart against his chest, licking meditatively at the mess of her hair until she stopped crying. A man-smell faded, went upwind of them until it was barely there at all.

A wolf made a girl stand, and chivvied her faster, until she stumbled and nearly fell, catching herself on his back.

And then there was the good smell of rotting, dripping into dirt and leaves and becoming plant again, and man-smell thick on the air that a wolf could taste it on his tongue, and voices in the dappled light.

“—lost the trail here,” a man-voice said. “Daryl said he could still see where she went but I can’t find it enough to pick it up.”

“Maybe he’ll come back,” another voice said. “You heard Amy, she said he saved her life. And she said he was really upset about Sophia. Rick, come on.”

“He’s not just gonna run away and leave all his stuff here,” the first voice said.

“He’ll come back for the bike, at least. When he does, we’ll get that son of a bitch, make him follow the trail.”

A third voice, a hateful voice, the bringer of gun-thunder.

A wolf pinned his ears, and growled low in his chest. A girl, clutching at his ruff, stilled with one foot up, pausing in her step, and fear scent bloomed.

Man was sound-deaf, noseblind. A girl didn’t know they were there, ahead of them. A girl was not a wolf. A girl ran but easily tired, needed fire and voices and weapons and warmth. A girl would be safer with man, with the killer-eyed man.

A wolf could outrun thunder. A wolf had done so before, here in the dirt and there in the sand.

The girl balked, wouldn’t come. A wolf snarled, and grabbed at her hand. She jerked it away, and he circled around her, nudged her knees.

A girl whined in her throat, pleading.

A wolf sat back on his haunted, tilted his head, and howled.

“Did you hear—”

Man, running, snapping at the other two men. He came through the brush, skidded when he saw them. The girl cried out, “Rick!” and ran, jumped as he caught her up, both of them stinking the air with salt-smell.

A wolf crouched low, tucked in his tail. The man with killer eyes looked up at him, bared his teeth in the good way a man did. Said, “You found her?”

The bushed ahead of him cracked. “Rick, get back!” Metal upwind, no, downwind, close enough to smell still.

A wolf bristled, snarled.

“Shane, don’t—”

The bushes behind him cracked.

Thunder, burn-scent in the air, _cordite_.

A wolf exploded into pain.


	2. Chapter 2

Something was _inside of him_! He was screaming, something was on him, it held him down, it was _hot it hurt neededitout_

“—change!” someone shouted, hard and mean. His teeth snapped shut hard on air, hands on his neck, digging into his fur, and he thrashed. “Don’t change!” someone said, at his head, and he moaned in his throat and fought his eyes open.

“Hold him harder!”

White into brown and pale and blue. The hands on his neck dug in, until he couldn’t breathe, and good instinct made him be still.

The world fizzed. He was licking the hand at his head _pleasemakeitstop_ and the air was sweet with blood and thick with smell and he slid until

* * *

“—do it quick. Now, while he’s awake.”

“But the bleeding, won’t this make it worse?”

“If we can’t get him to change, he’ll die like this. I can’t use the respirator when he’s in this shape. Now, can you do it?”

“I can try.”

He panted, tongue out, thirsty so much it hurt. Everything was warm and damp and bloody, and he licked at the space near him and whined high in his throat.

“Easy,” someone said, “easy now.” A hand rubbed his ears.

He rolled his eyes to look, couldn’t quite see. His breathes came faster. He couldn’t feel much except heavy, and something held him down when he tried to move.

“Hey,” someone said above his ear. “Hey, Daryl, look at me.”

The pale blurs resolved into a face as he stared. Unfurred, unsettlingly short. Killer eyes, red smeared across the cheek. He moaned, low, and the face frowned.

Somewhere behind him. “We’re losing time. It’s got to be now.”

“Daryl,” the face said. “It’s me, it’s Rick.”

The noise had no meaning. The hand on his ear moved, tilted his head up. He licked the fingers, whined. What did they want?

“You’re safe,” the face said. “You’re okay. But you’ve been shot. We have to get the bullet out. Do you understand?”

He cried out like a puppy, small and tired, but the hurt in his back and chest only got worse and the face didn’t go away, didn’t look happier. He went limp with fear, bared his neck, but the face didn’t bare his teeth, didn’t say _good_ or _yes_.

The hurt didn’t stop.

“ _Rick_ ,” someone said behind him.

“To get the bullet out, you need to change back,” the face said. “You’ve got to change back or you’ll die.”

He whined, and put his head down and shut his eyes. The face wouldn’t make the hurt stop.

“Tell him to—”

_Shift back_.

He knew that sound. He picked his head up and whined, ears up, strained until the hurt tore at him and he fell back.

“What—”

“Just _do_ it!”

“Daryl,” the face said, and it reached out for him and put its hands on him. “Daryl, shift. Shift back.”

If he did, the face would say _good_. It would make the teeth face. It would make the hurt stop.

“Patricia, get the line ready. Rick, move back. We need room to work. It’s got to go right in or the blood loss could be too great.”

He strained, harder, whined raw from his chest. The hands were gone but the face was still there, blurring gently. Its mouth said, “Come on, Daryl. Shift back. Shift back.”

The world glazed red. Whatever was holding him down moved, and he thrashed weakly. Everything hurt, it _pulled_ , it went crack crackcrackcla—

Something in him tore.

Daryl screamed, hoarsely, and threw his head back. Everything hurt, everything _burned_ , and there were strangers all around him, hurting him, and he snarled, tried to move but someone braced him against the bed.

“Give him the morphine!” an old man said, and a woman hunched over his arm.

They weren’t dressed right. They weren’t, the room didn’t smell like industrial cleaner and hot dry air, only blood and some kind of flowery shit, and Daryl could feel when it hit him, coldness in his arm, everything slowing down and spreading out.

His head sank down. He was looking at a face upside down, too blurry to tell who. Daryl squinted harder. Blue eyes, red face.

“Mer’l?”

His nose didn’t lie. The scent soured, real fast and unhappy, and Daryl knew who it was, relaxed with it, melted down a little.

“Sar’nt. ‘M I— I get hit?”

“Yeah,” Ford said. He sounded funny, different. “But we’re taking care of it. Just relax. Just go to sleep.”

“Th’ others?” Daryl got out, his eyelids dragging down.

“They’re fine. Sophia’s just fine. You got her.”

“Wh’s ‘phia?” he asked, but there was no answer. The thought followed him down.

* * *

The inside of his eyelids was dusky-orange, and he was warm and heavy and ached all over. Someone was moving around him, shifting his arm, moving the pillows under his head. He flinched when they touched his forehead and whoever was there froze—rabbit in the grass still.

Slowly, in half-inches, Daryl rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes enough to see. She was real blonde, and real young, and real nervous.

_Really_ fucking nervous. It stunk up the whole damn room, sweat and fear kick and his own goddamn blood. She didn’t look away, just stared at him hard.

All the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he could feel the painful adrenaline thump as his heart kicked up.

His whole mouth was dry as fuck and his lips tasted salt-bloody when he licked at them. “Th’ fuck are you?”

She jumped towards the door, past where he could see, shouting, “Daddy!” loud of enough to make his ears ring.

Nothing here was familiar except the rotsweet scent of his blood everywhere. There was a line in his arm, and if he tilted his head a little he could see the bag hooked onto the headboard. Daryl eased his head back and stared at the ceiling. He could move his fingers and toes, so he wasn’t paralyzed even if he wasn’t gonna be running anywhere anytime soon. He wasn’t dead, so nothing had bitten him. He was alone, so he was definitely fucked.

Heavy, slow footsteps on hardwood. A cool, clean smell came in with whoever was at the door. Grassy and content animal and hay and soap. Good soap, too, not the harsh shit from the CDC they’d been using. His head felt like it might fall off any second, so he turned it real slow, just in case, and looked at the man.

He was old and unarmed and he nodded at him. “It’s good that you’re awake,” the man said, and finished wiping his hands on the rag he was holding. “Your friends have been very worried about you.”

He came further into the room, and Daryl tensed. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” the man said, stopping where he was. “And then I’d like to take another look at your stomach. But I can wait until you’ve calmed down.”

He didn’t look mad. Daryl opened his mouth, breathed in and out. Didn’t smell mad either, or afraid. Didn’t smell like much under the surface shit. It eased him a little, made his shoulders unhunch.

“Where am I?” he asked, and started to push himself up on his elbows.

The world went white all over. The world went black around the edges. Daryl rolled his eyes frantically, panting, jerked away from the hands on his shoulders. “That’s enough,” the man said. “Lie still and I’ll help you sit up.”

Daryl grit his teeth until his whole jaw hurt, and let the man ease him down until he was staring at the ceiling again.

“I don’t suggest trying to move very much,” the old man said. “You’ve been shot in your stomach, and I had to perform surgery to get all the fragments out. You need to rest and stay still or you could risk tearing the internal stitches.”

He came back with a pillow, that same flowery soap smell, and eased it behind Daryl until he was more sitting than lying.

“My name’s Hershel Greene,” he said, and reached out to shake Daryl’s hand.

When was the last time anyone had bothered to pretend he was civilized? Had tried to touch him? The man had apparently had his hands all over Daryl’s guts so it seemed a little late for a handshake.

Greene kept his hand out, kept eye-contact.

Whatever. So he was crazy. He’d had his hands _in_ Daryl’s goddamn guts. Better not to piss him off.

They shook.

“Thanks for stitchin’ me up,” Daryl said. “You, uh, you know how I got here?”

“Your friends brought you in,” Greene said. “I’m ashamed to say I’m in charge of the man who shot you.”

He didn’t look in charge of much. Wasn’t even wearing a goddamn uniform. Daryl watched him check the IV, his hands cool and dry on his arm. “Friendly fire?” he asked.

“You could say that,” Greene said and came around to his other side. “Now, does this hurt?”

Daryl grit his teeth through the next ten minutes, and lay panting and weak while Greene taped gauze back up over the stitches. “I’m lowering the dose of the morphine,” Greene was saying. “There’s not much left of it, and I can supplement it with ibuprofen. I’m also prescribing bedrest for two weeks, and only light activity for two weeks after that.”

He looked down at Daryl and said in the same mild voice, “And no shifting for the duration. I’ve got several doses of Solista if you need it.”

Sweat broke out along Daryl’s back, and he gripped at the sheets with one hand so hard they creaked. “Don’t need it,” he said. He narrowed his eyes, pulled his lip back. “Ain’t gonna be down that long either.”

There was a knock at the door. Another blonde, a different blonde—how many running around were there?—poked her head around. “He wants to see him,” she said. “Should I—?”

“Give us a minute, please,” Greene said. “And if you could get some ice chips for our patient? Thank you, Patricia.”

She retreated, shut the door with a click before Daryl could get more than a breath or two of the air beyond.

“I understand if you have some concerns,” Greene said to him, and Daryl wretched his gaze back. “But no one here is going to hurt you. My family is many things, but willfully ignorant isn’t one of them.”

Someone was talking outside the door, arguing in a low voice. Daryl caught the edges of it, but not the words, and he could feel himself start to sweat a little harder.

The old man didn’t smell upset. Daryl didn’t like the look he had, too mild, unconcerned. “Who’s that?” Daryl asked, and made his hands let go of the blanket before it tore.

“Your friend,” Greene said. “Would you like me to let him in?”

Everything eased out, like someone turned all his muscles into warm water. “You better,” Daryl said. “Ford’s a mean motherfucker, ain’t gonna cool his heels long.”

“Ford?” Greene said, eyebrows all drawn like he didn’t know who that was, and the door slammed open.

“You can’t go in there!” the second blonde was saying when Daryl whipped his head around, but the man in the doorway didn’t—  
 _Rick_.

It jumped in Daryl’s chest, hard enough to hurt, like someone had wound right up and punched him.

Rick. The big-ass herd of geeks on the highway. Goddamn Shane taking pot shots at him. _Sophia_.

Daryl couldn’t blame it on the good drugs. He hadn’t wanted to remember any of the shitshow. The end of the goddamn world. His eyes hurt like a bitch. He dropped his head back into the pillow, and sucked in a breath. Yeah, alright.

“Hey,” Rick said, and came right up to the bed like he didn’t understand a man might want some personal space. “Daryl. It’s good to see you awake.”

His arms weight about a hundred pounds apiece. Daryl lifted one enough to wipe at his eyes and choked out, “How’s Sophia?”

“She’s fine,” Rick said too fast. “She’s doing good. We’re all fine.”

He found his teeth. Rick looked uncomfortable, so did Greene. Daryl was glad. “Fucker who shot me fine?”

This made them look at each other, just a glance, but Daryl wasn’t too drugged up to miss it. Rick turned back fast, and moved until Daryl couldn’t see Greene around him. “He keeps trying to apologize,” Rick said. “Wanted to come see you. I told him you probably wouldn’t appreciate that.”

Rick flicked a look at his face, at the bandages, and Daryl made a sound in his throat he couldn’t help. It slipped out between his teeth, loud ‘cause no one was talking.

“Look, Daryl,” Rick said, and reached out like he was gonna touch him, hold his hand like he was some goddamn invalid.

The noise came out louder. Daryl tried to grit his teeth down on it, couldn’t make it stop no matter how hard his heart kicked in his chest.

Greene said, “Rick,” low, and it startled Daryl, made him jerk.

And then there was the blonde, muscling her way past Rick with a big tray in her hands. “’Scuse me,” she said, and clanked in onto the side table so hard the glass on it wobbled. “Hershel,” she said, loud and cheerful and stink-full of rage, “I’ve ice chips for him, and some broth, and then I thought I’d clean him up a little.”

Rick loomed up right behind her, his jaw tight, but she only turned around and looked past him, smiling a bright smile. “That’s fine, Patricia,” Greene said. “Rick, why don’t we wait outside? I’d like to talk to you about trading some labor.” He took Rick’s arm, too tight for him to shake off, and Rick looked over his shoulder all the way out of the room, but he still went.

Some of the rage-scent left the blonde. She rolled her shoulders, and turned back to him and said, nurse-cheerful, “Well! You must be thirsty. Let’s try some ice chips and see if those’ll stay down.”

* * *

It was dark and cool, moonlight coming in through the window enough to see by, but not enough to bother him. Someone was rustling outside the window of the room they’d stuck him in, loud enough to wake him up if he hadn’t already been panting from levering himself to sit on the side of the bed, bracing himself with trembling arms.

Talking in whispers just on the porch came drifting in.

“Dad said not to bother him!”

“He’s not _my_ dad. And if you’re so scared you can just go back to bed!”

“I’m not scared!”

“Uh-huh. Then why’s your hand all damp?”

“It’s hot!”

“You’re just a baby,” so scornful that Daryl snorted. “You didn’t even see him.”

“Yes I did! He went right past me! You’d be scared, too.”

“Yeah, well, I saw him kill a bunch of walkers and I’m not scared.”

“Sophia, don’t!” in a piercing whisper that made him wince. Kid was worse than a goddamn dog whistle.

There was a scratching sound, and he watched a body black against the moonlight lever itself in the window. It looked up, straddling the sill and froze when it saw him.

“Kid,” Daryl said, strange anger low in his gut. “Didn’t you learn your lesson about wanderin’ off? Gonna get yourself shot sneakin’ around in the middle of the night.”

And after all the work he’d put into keeping her alive. If the asshole that put a hole in him got trigger happy again, Daryl was gonna tear his throat out and fuck the consequences.

“Mister Daryl!” the shadow squeaked, and tumbled itself into the room with a thump.

“Goddamn it,” Daryl said, and gave up on trying to stand. She’d try and help him, and he’d just end up falling and crush her to death. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Rick said nobody could come and see you!” she whispered, and grinned like a goon, all teeth and flyaway hair and happyclean smell. So different from the little girl huddled in a dusty pantry, staring at him like he might take her head off with one bite. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Sophia!” Rick’s kid hissed outside, and Daryl heaved a sigh.

“Make him get in here ‘fore someone shoots him,” he said, and fumbled at the side table for his water glass. He was wet all over with sweat, and his own painsmell was making him angry and afraid in turns, like his head couldn’t figure out what was the right response to being fucked up and surrounded by strangers all the time. Bedding down in their den, under their care.

Sophia was hauling the kid—Kurt? No, Carl—in through the window by the scruff of his shirt when he looked back. _This_ kid was all wide-eyes, not stone cold like his daddy, and looked at Daryl like he was a lion in a cage at the zoo.

“Siddown,” Daryl snapped, “and start thinkin’ of a likely story, ‘cause you’re going out the goddamn front door when you leave.”

Carl shrank against the wall, but Sophia just smiled brighter, like she liked when people were grumpy fucks with her. “Mom says you aren’t supposed to walk for a long time, like a month” she told him and edged closer. “Because that guy shot you.”

“Your mom a doctor now?” Daryl asked, glanced at the door. Someone was awake out there, moving around. Light under the door and foodsmell kept creeping in to gnaw at his gut. He’d give the kid a minute to see he wasn’t that interesting, then he’d make whoever was out there walk them back to camp.

“No,” Sophia said and stopped at the foot of the bed. “But she talked to Mister Greene and he told her and then she told me. And I heard Rick tell my mom you looked terrible.” She squinted at him in the dim light. “I don’t think you look _that_ bad.”

Laughter barked out of him before he could help it. He clutched his stomach, hot pain, and gulped in breath, tasted the tones of nerves in the air. “Goddamn it,” Daryl said, gasping. “Thanks, kid.”

She wrinkled her nose at him and twisted her hands in the edge of her shirt. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m tougher than I look.” But she just looked closer at him. “ _I’m_ fine,” Daryl said.

From the edge of the room, Carl said, “Shane told us mutts heal faster than we do.”

It cut the room. Just a goddamn kid and already he—well, it didn’t matter. Not like Daryl didn’t know the kind of shit got thrown around behind his back once someone found out. He looked down, at his hands, clenched around the empty cup, and very carefully put it back on the table.

“Well Shane sucks!” Sophia said, loudly, like it burst out of her. “He was gonna shoot Daryl!”

“No he wasn’t!” Carl shouted back. “He would never. He only shoots bad guys!”

“Then how come he was aiming at him!”

They panted at each other, furious, and Daryl shut his eyes. Whoever was next door had gone real still and quiet, and outside the regular nightsounds were gone, people walking fast and talking loudly, coming up to the house.

The whole room stank, teenage hormone gross with blood around the edges and when he looked down he wasn’t even surprised to see he was bleeding through his bandages. Someone hammered on a door, not his door though. Footsteps on creaking stairs, fast.

“Your parents are here,” he grit out. “An’ you better tell ‘em I ain’t had anything to do with this. Got enough to deal with.”

Sophia turned back to him, eyes wide, just as the shouting outside came to a crescendo and the door flew open.

Another strange woman, brown hair this time. “They’re in here!” she shouted, and a whole herd of people thundered down the hall.

Carol, slamming herself into Sophia, swinging her around. She was crying. “Don’t you ever, ever!” she said, and buried her face in Sophia’s hair with a gasp.

Lori was grabbing at Carl, hand on his head, while he gasped out, “We didn’t mean to! We just wanted to see—”

Daryl turned his back on them and levered himself up slowly, swayed until he was sure he wasn’t going to crash back down. His stomach hurt but not enough to make him lie back down. They’d take the IV out and he was thirsty so badly he was half-dizzy with it.

Shane came in, the hair on Daryl’s arms, his neck standing on end, and he froze, caught in a breath. Wanted to turn around and fight him, wanted to run.

“What the hell were you thinking!” Shane shouted. “You scared the shit out of us, walking off like that! What if something had happened? And no one knew where you were!” The kids were crying in sobbing little gasps, first the boy then the girl, and it made his teeth ache.

What did he care? They weren’t his brats. Daryl made it to the wall, threw a hand against it to brace himself.

“That’s enough, Shane,” Rick said, steps so even and sure into the room that Daryl didn’t even need to look to know it was him. “Why don’t we all take a minute and calm down?”

“Could someone please tell me what is going on here?” Hershel, sounding pissed.

And then someone gasped, and footsteps came across the room. Daryl looked up, almost at the bathroom door, saw Patricia coming at him. “You’re not supposed to be up!” she said, and reached out to shore up his side.

Daryl was a goddamn idiot, knew it the second he did it. Couldn’t take it back, though. She was a _stranger_ , the room was full of anger and his blood and lots of furious noises, and scared scent from the kids. He was already on edge when she rushed.

He threw himself sideways away from her and hit the floor hard enough to knock his breath out, cold all over from the hurt, biting at his mouth to keep from making any noise, drawing any more attention to himself.

Gasping, he shoved himself back, away from the _stranger_ , scenting for Merle. Wanting him there so much it was like his arm was gone, a hole at his other side where there should be furious and bulky warmth.

He couldn’t hear anything, like he was underwater, everything swimming soupy in bad scents, and the lady kept coming even though he was warning her away, snarling so hard he shook with it, teeth out so she could see he meant business.

And then someone grabbed his other arm, on his blind side, and pulled him up and away. “I’ve got him,” he said, right at Daryl’s ear. “Stay there, I’ve got him.”

Daryl hung against him, panting. Smelled the air, smelled the dangerscent Rick gave off when he was pissed. _Killer-eyes_ , Merle said in his other ear.

He wasn’t Merle, who would come and drag him out the other side of hell, laughing like it was fun. He wasn’t even Ford, who’d been paid to watch his ass and had turned it into his favorite hobby. But Rick got his arm under Daryl, and dragged him back to the bed, and stayed crouched between him and the woman.

He had killer eyes and he _owed_ Daryl. Sophia’s scent was still all over the room.

Rick reached out for him, grabbed his arm so he didn’t fall back, and Daryl didn’t flinch away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap! there's a lot i'm still interested in exploring in this world, but it'll likely be as short series of post-scripts if i put up anything at all. hope you enjoyed reading this, because i had a hell of a good time writing it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a kinder world, one with more morphine…

"C'n you—Rick can you, you gotta go get those things."

"What things?"

"Those little, fuck, those card things. Wear 'em on your shirts. Like, like people smells but words. 'Cause I can't, I can't smell shit and there's, oh God."

"Daryl? You alright?"

"There's just so many of 'em."

Muffled laughter. "So many of what?"

" _Blondes_ , Rick. Where th' hell do they keep comin' from?"

"Hershel, how much of this stuff are you giving him?"

**Author's Note:**

> five years ago i didn't do this prompt justice, so i'm back now with a vengeance, remixing my own work because i'm the tackiest bitch in existence. i deleted the original text, and maybe someday i'll stop cringing enough to put it back up, but today's not that day. i'm over [here](http://half-a-league.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to talk about werewolves.


End file.
